#mommy kafka

[rigormortissa]

Kafka pics cause im OBSESSED (new pfp immediately)

[dkart]

Kafka is cool, we all know

[tumblingdotaku]

Kafka from Honkai: Star Rail

Easily my favorite character, I pulled so hard for her! (Only managed to E3 her though 😭) I really can't wait to learn more about her, especially her connection with MC!

[lazychrysalis]

playing honkai star rail rn, and holy fuck can kafka just step on me???

[kiyoko-thebrat]

Okay guys, I'll post when mommy comes home

Only then will I post fanfic again on this cursed (But blessed) app 🙏

[lorelune]

step mom kafka and her weird ‘friend’ blade who sleeps on your couch

[hitomisuzuya]

Kafka x fem!reader Blade x fem! reader. Smut. Threesome. Cunnilingus. Degradation. Mommy/Daddy kink. Kafka receiving/giving. Dom!Kafka Dom!Blade

I slept for a few hours, woke up, got high and this came out. This is kinda dirty. I am going to bed now.

Kafka has you on your back on one of her expensive jackets, your legs spread apart and trembling as she licked your pussy. "Be a good girl, and pinch your tits for me," She slowly flicked her tongue over your throbbing clit, "Show Bladie how good I am making you feel," She held your drooling folds apart with two elegant fingers, flattening her tongue on your clenching hole.

One of your hands left the back of her head, finding one of your nipples. You rolled the sensitive bud between the pads of your fingers. Your back arched as you grinded needily into her mouth. There was a dark blush on your cheeks, you were incredibly aware of Blade watching you.

Blade's face may have looked stoic, but it was hard for him not to lose control. Fisting his cock to the sight of Kafka ruining you did little to abate the pulsing ache in it. He knew Kafka was doing this on purpose.

Blade had lost count of the times he'd stood outside Kafka's bedroom door, jacking himself off to the sounds of her ruining you. From the way Kafka often antagonized you into screaming Blade's name instead while she fucked you told him she knew he was listening.

She was enjoying every minute of teasing him.

Kafka sucked on your clit for a few moments before she sat up. "Look at her, Bladie," She purred playfully, spreading your creamy folds again for him, "She's wet and ready for you."

Blade shivered in anticipation. "Turn over," He growled, moving behind you as you got on your elbows and knees, raising your ass up and giving him a view of your puffy pussy. Grasping his cock, he hastily pushed it inside you, letting out a groan.

"That's it, Bladie," Kafka teased, moving to sit at your head and spreading her legs, "Stuff your cock into her cunt just right, and she'll start calling you Daddy," Her words made Blade's cock pulse inside of you as he bottomed out.

"Make me cum, Daddy, please," You whimpered as his cock kissed into your sweet spot, looking up at Kafka feeling her hand on the back of your head. Blade fingers sank into your hips, giving him leverage to set a dizzying pace.

Kafka allowed you to let out a few loud, shameless moans before she moved your mouth onto her pussy. "Be a dear and tend to Mommy's cunt," She purred.

"Mhmm," You moaned muffled into her pussy, licking her clit before latching your lips onto it. Kafka moaned, pressing your mouth onto her cunt. You yelped feeling the sting of Blade's hand across your ass.

"Whine more, slut," He groaned, his thrusts growing harsher as he lost himself in the tight feeling of your walls on his cock. He paid absolutely no mind to the fact he was rapidly losing control. He was enjoying feeling you fall apart on his cock, your hole stretched tight and perfect as it squelched and pumped inside you.

Your orgasm was building up too fast for you to process, your drool pooling onto Kafka's cunt as you whimpered and moaned. Your hands clung to Kafka's thighs, your tongue lapping at her clenching hole. Your lips sucking at her clit made her release flooded onto your tongue, her hand stroking through your hair as she used your face to get off.

Blade chased the pulsing feeling in his cock, taking out all his pent up frustration out on you. It felt so fucking good to finally get his hands on you, and fuck you in the ways he'd only thought about. His hand reached down to rub and pinch your clit, intent on making you cream on his cock before filling you.

[mlady-magnolia]

When your kids maxed out your credit card in Penacony

[trashmuth]

Do my parents love me? Do they like me? Do we share the same rage for each other? Will I ever satisfy them, make them happy as I was supposed to?

When You Finish Saving The World (2023), dir. Jesse Eissenberg / Euphoria s2x05 / the sun and her flowers by rapi kaur / Lady Bird (2017), dir. Greta Gerwig / Least Favourite Only Child - Leanna Firestone / Fleabag s2x06 / Frank Kafka’s letter to his father / Geloy Conception / “Mama” from Home Is Not A Country by Sofia Elhillo / To The Bone (2019), dir.  Marti Noxon

[alinalal-art]

kafka

Prints || Patreon || Redbubble

[mechazushi]

So, this isn't so much an "Incorrect Quotes"...

So much as an "I have a vision, but I'm not an artist so I have to settle for writing it out and hope someone understands what I'm picturing."

For starters, ya'll know about the artist trend of putting your OC's or favorite characters in a specific dress...

ya know... this one⬇

Yeah, just...ALL of Division Three. And I mean all + Narumi. Here how it sounds in my head. (Its more of a comic? It's just mostly dialogue than anything and they're just standing in a line talking to each other.) {And keep in mind....THEY ARE ALL WEARING THE DRESS AS THEY SAY THIS. ITS 90% OF THE JOKE}

Mina: When I said I was nervous about my first promotional modeling gig for Vogue, That didn't mean it was an open invitation to come out here and.... "Support me".

Kafka: Come on. This can't be any more embarrassing than that time you caught me in the sexy lingerie I was wearing for my high school prank.

Hoshina: *In air, eyes glowing woke spartan style, mid assassin strike aimed at Kafka with a training sword, ALSO IN THE DRESS* pics or it didn't happen-

Reno: Look. We're here, we showed up in the dress, can we leave now? I'm getting cold in places I don't want to be cold.

Iharu: Aww, come on! You look dashing! Few more pics! *Somehow managed to convince the photographer to take the shot of them*

Haruichi: The fact that you're filling this out better than me is disturbing.

Aoi:*Trying not to let his blush show* Are the lights getting to you because you're talking bullshit.

Minase: Oh my God! KIKORU!!!! You look amazing!!!

Kikoru:*embarrassed* Minassseee.... I-I'm with Reno. Can we change into our work jumpers now?

Hakua: Hey, can I take this one home? Makin' me feel hella confident right now. *Starts a gun show in front of a mirror.*

Narumi: *In front of the same mirror Hakua is in, serving cunt and taking selfies* Honestly, ya'll should just put me on the cover instead of Mina cuz' I'm pulling this off way better than her in the moment.

I also like to imagine that instead of Mina on the cover... It's Kafka in Kaiju form in the dress. The glowing abs would absolutely be visible as well....

[xvefei]

[breedaboo]

This gem I found while scrolling on youtube last night

[corruptedlostsoul]

[atlaswav]

METAMORPHOSIS ☾

INFO: 2246 words, kafka x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: The threads of fate were never to be interpreted by the senses of mortals, and you pay the price. An extravagant cage, or a slave to destiny? You play your part like the puppet you learned to be, with Kafka serving as your lesson to maintain the realm between art and the artist. You, the Frankenstein's monster of fate's mistakes, and Kafka, the one who sees everlasting beauty in you. WARNINGS: uh nothing really except angst ig and REALLY FUCKING DENSE PROSE good luck reading allat bc i'm not reading what I wrote again LMFAO. this is gonna flop bc it's too complicated rip AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOT PROOFREAD BC ITS CURRENTLY 3:30AM AND IM DELIRIOUS. This was intended to be a weird character study but it turned self indulgent REAL quick i hate it sofuckingmuch YIPEEE!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated i'll give u a fat sloppy kiss.

Art governs the world, as Kafka says.

The world is governed by its artists. Formed by the hands of sculptors, decorated with grandeur by its musicians and dancers, yet art runs far deeper than these meticulous displays. Art is present in all. It allows life to be breathed into the mundane, allows men to understand their souls – the contours of their being, the purity and refinement of their essence. It allows for the soul to become honed as sharp and pedantic as one’s craft, etching the outline of an artist’s life.

Art allows man to discover and become familiar with themselves, and hence becomes a vehicle for all those yearning for greatness to have their wishes fulfilled. Thus, art is mistaken as a noble practice, each misshapen line of a paintbrush burdened with the virtue it cannot promise. Yet art may not be as noble as what meets the eye, with its breath shaping each whisper of life. As there is an art to all, there can only be balance. Shrouded with the curse of mortality and death, the act of stealing life becomes an art as well. Dark and taboo, but an art nonetheless. 

Killing becomes an art, each spray of blood the artist’s signature, each cut, bruise and scar carrying the same reverberations as the splash of paint on a blank canvas. It could never be replicated, even if the artist’s eye was the most honed at their craft. Done right, killing could be beautiful, and death could be revered. It was a mantra for all she did – Kafka, the absurd devotee to all that was beautiful, perpetually in pursuit of beauty and purpose. 

Beauty, she thought, was the hierophant of art in itself. Though this may present a causality dilemma in all art mirroring beauty and beauty ever present in art, she believed that beauty would reign triumphant. To her, it was a sanctimonious practice that would rule out of presence alone, but instead of interpreting the beauty of the world, she craved to find beauty for herself. Selfish to no end, but what were humans if not selfish?

Many thought she was mad. That her self imposed quest was futile, and she’d return tasting bitter disappointment sickly on her tongue. Her self imposed quest was woven into her being, the thread that perpetuated her fate and directed her to Elio. The thread that gloriously pulled her towards you. 

Were you art, or the artist? Were you the creator, or the created? The all knowing maker or the grotesquely beautiful creation? She couldn’t tell. It was trivial. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. You were beautiful to her – the embodiment of all she believed to ring virtuous and true. Causality dilemma as you may be, you remained unshaken by the wiles of fate.

“How did Elio get you?” were her first words to you. 

Composed of fragments of dreams and broken flesh, you appeared in front of her. Stricken by a plight of existence, but beautiful, still. A Frankenstein's monster of beauty and decay. “He didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I came to him.”

Curiosity flashed in those eyes of honeyed wine. “What reason would someone like you have to enslave yourself to fate?”

In turn, you smiled at her. “Fate will tell, will it not?”

Fate strung its threads across your body in a pattern of knots so ravishingly complex. Your fate, ambiguous to all but Elio, it seemed, wrapped around you in the most tragic and delightful way, she couldn’t resist tangling herself with you; tracing her gloved hands along your bindings, losing herself in the rumination of possibility. The rumination that she once would’ve scoffed at for being so wishful. 

You didn’t know what you did to her.

“Is it time already?” she rose from her position, glancing down at the unconscious man beside you, oblivious to your presence. Blade was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the hypnotic state Kafka had induced on him. 

“Looks like it. Elio’s never wrong.” you reply.

“Are you nervous?”

“Why would I be? Did Elio mention anything about danger?”

Her laugh is musical. “The trailblazer hasn’t met you yet.”

“I’m excited to make their acquaintance, then, if they’re as interesting as you suggest.”

Kafka smiled, slipping through the doorway of the makeshift abode with a fleeting glance. Fleeting glances, furtive touches, whispered words. That’s what the thin bond stringing you together consisted of. Neither of you let the other linger for too long, so help the stain that you’d inevitably leave. You were the substance she wanted to get blissfully drunk on, yet you were far too beautiful to squander on such menial things. In turn, she was the overture that haunted your dreams, yet disappeared once the score came into view.

Some things were best left at a distance, the careful and prudent restriction promising preservation. 

With a laugh to none but yourself, you followed her from a distance just beyond arm’s reach. You realised you would follow her to whatever end she led you to. You’d let her lead you to desolation, because you trusted she’d restore what she called your ‘beauty’ once again. You trusted her cunning eye – the eye of the artist – to watch you become derelict, and to salvage what could be saved from the shards of your remains. 

The trailblazer had the same eyes that Kafka had – willful and shrewd – yet determination sat at the forefront instead of the tinge of deadly curiosity Kafka held. 

“Who are you?” the trailblazer questioned, eyes flickering between the two of you. Two questions spent, one left.

“I used to be a knight of beauty.” a faint glimmer in her eye as she smiles towards you. “We worshipped Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty. We vowed to guard their beauty with the sword, but one day they suddenly disappeared.”

The trailblazer appeared to be conflicted, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you. “And you?”

“I am the interpreter of the cosmos.” Kafka’s amusement is undeniable. Her lie doesn’t escape you as you weave a web with the string she provided. Playing her game as intended. “The stars ordain their prophecy, and I interpret them into coherent events that mortals are able to comprehend.”

The trailblazer says nothing. The best lies are moulded from dregs of the truth, as she’d taught you.

“What’s your last question?” Kafka asks. 

“What are you two?”

Very few times you’ve seen Kafka taken by surprise. The woman blinks. 

“Kafka is an artist.” you respond in her stead as she scoffs at your answer.

“Then you are the wanderer above the sea of fog.”

Full of riddles, always. She could never give anyone a straight answer. Why would she? She was the artist, forever touched by the calamitous effect of your being.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The trailblazer frowns.

Kafka laughs in delight. If you could store the sound in your heart, surviving from its pure, unbridled mirth, you would. “Everything leads to the answer eventually. There’s only the illusion of being lost.”

“Quit being cryptic.”

“The future is a labyrinth. Divergences are merely inducements. There is only one true path. You only have to know how to look.” A smile plays across her lips as she gestures towards you. “And I have my looking glass.”

—

If beauty was present in all art, you failed to find the art in deceit. Morally, its falsehoods nurtured the true nature of humankind, yet the guilt that followed in tandem with this practice ate away at the disposition like rotting flesh in the maw of a rabid beast. 

Elio had revealed his plans to you – your script to act out – and you’d shied away in cowardice. Or could it be seen as self preservation? Where was the line between cowardice and preservation? Surely, you walked across it with fear of teetering to one side. There’d been no deceit on your part until this very moment, the illusion of what you’d had finally facing the denouement. 

You so desperately wanted to continue living this beautiful farce with Kafka, but there were other plains written in the stars. 

“Kafka?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me a lie.” 

“A lie?” 

You frowned, gazing up at the stars. The infinite, perpetually changing stars that voiced their teachings to you with whispers unheard to ears but your own. If it was in Elio’s script, you’d play your part, no matter the height of the fall. Such was your deal with Elio – your shackles in exchange for an extravagant cage. “Yes.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Another city, another task to fulfil via Elio’s requests. Did they ever end? It was a foolish question to ponder. 

“Your lies are pretty. I could get blissfully drunk on them.” your eyes reflect the cosmos in them, and as Kafka leans in closer, you shut your eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

You laugh, palm outstretched in front of you as if to gather the galaxy in your fist and force the fate of the world out of its grasp. “You lie so often that it’s the only constant I can find, anymore.”

She pauses. She’s sure you can feel her body tense beside you. “...Don’t tell me.”

“Lie to me, Kafka.” you close your eyes, leaning against her shoulder as the stars gaze down at you. She remains still. 

“I can’t. Did Elio put you up to this?”

“Why not?” Your avoidance of her question only makes her even more wary. 

“I’ll feel guilty.” she pouts, her light tone an attempt to alleviate the atmosphere, but you turn to face her completely. 

“Kafka, I’m in love with you.”

Silence hung rigid in the air as the stars sang their lonely hymn, their finale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Kafka, the picture of stoicism – the unmoving sword in the stone – was torn. Her facade of cold, amused indifference had shattered, leaving a demeanour that betrayed her emotions, now written clear across her face. You turned away. 

Two stars, born of the same nebula, yet suffering far different fates from one another. Your star burnt far too brightly, while hers shone with cold light that you relished in. Your star would soon wink out, your death a destruction unbeknownst and insignificant to many, yet cataclysmic for one.

Deceit was necessary, or so Elio had told you, for Kafka’s resolve to steel. For her to become the character he needed to execute his script.

So, you supposed, as there was an art in Kafka’s beautiful lies, there was beauty in deceit. A beauty of sacrifice to set Kafka’s beauty etched into time, while you burned away in the depths of history. 

The wanderer above the sea of fog, and the artist that could only appraise its beauty. The two realms far too separate for the artist to reach out and stop the hand that tore the canvas with a blunt knife. 

“Was that a lie?” Kafka asks, voice distant as the look in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t lie to you.” the words spill out like a wound torn open. Rehearsed, and performed like the slave to destiny you became. It repulsed you. You wanted to rip your tongue out. 

“You can’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this.” she meets your eyes. Pleading, almost. The Kafka you know never pleads – but the thread between you is stretched taut, and the three fates lie in wait. 

“Tell me a lie, please.” you step closer. She steps back, expression carefully blank. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you despise the air I breathe. Tell me that the beauty that you see in me is unfading.”

“Stop.” her gloved hands rest on your shoulders. Delicate, as if you’re a statue that she sculpted herself. 

“Kafka, please.”

“Enough.” She releases her hold, turning away from you. “Goodnight.”

The art must be separated from the artist, or so Elio had claimed. You were the grotesque creation, and she was the artist with unbridled curiosity. Your mere touch was poisonous to her, Elio claimed – he claimed many things, and you wanted to scream at him, to tear the tapestry of destiny apart with your bare hands, but he gave you a choice. 

Though a life as destiny’s slave was demanding, life as an orchestrator of the most beautiful catastrophe sounded far more enticing – morbidly so. 

Kafka was the artist in perpetual pursuit of all things beautiful, and you could think of no entity more beautiful than the tragic story of your own satirical tragedy. 

Elio handed you the options, and you tugged at the thread lined with gold, cajoled with fables of love and artistry. The world fell silent around you as you stepped into the role of the artist, commanding the orchestra with a baton of bones. Cold, unfeeling. Such should be the shape of your soul, as your art demanded. 

Art aids mankind in discovering the contours of their soul. Yours just so happened to be the missing star in the sky. A tale of destruction unknown to any other except the star burning blindingly bright beside you, mourning. 

You, the monster of art, pressed too close to the artist, and now you were marked with lacerations none could erase. Kafka’s sword found its mark through your heart, and blood sprayed onto the floor in a flourish of red. The artist’s signature. 

“I can’t lie to you anymore.” 

And so the star burned brighter.

written by @atlaswav , published 17th of January 2024

[kiyoko-thebrat]

Guys, I kinda sorta forgot to post when mommy Kafka came home; But yeahhhh

(I’m so sorry college and working is fucking my ass like I’m a twink)